Risk control International was in the "survival business." At least, that was the phrase the company's director preferred.

He'd decided, Chelsea assumed, it sounded better than saying people came to them because they feared for their lives.

But semantics aside, the world was becoming a more dangerous place - practically by the day. People were clamoring for the sort of top-quality bodyguards and chauffeurs that RCI provided. And the demand for sophisticated training programs in personal security was growing at an unprecedented rate.

New companies, eager to meet that demand, seemed to be popping up all the time. RCI, however, had been around for almost twenty years and had a reputation as one of the very best. Its instructors were all top-flight professionals who'd demonstrated their skills in real-life situations - which translated into the company having as many clients as it could handle.

Many of them were accustomed to special treatment, so before each new tactical driving course began, Chelsea reviewed her prospective students' files - which generally helped her tailor her teaching to their specific needs.

Today, however, one of the files was doing nothing but puzzling her. Trent Harrison simply wasn't standard RCI material.

Oh, he wasn't entirely different from most of the individuals they trained. The vast majority were males, and she hadn't needed more than a glance at the snapshot clipped inside his folder to decide there was no doubt he fit into that category.

In fact, she was thinking she might have to create a subcategory reserved for men who looked enough like Antonio Banderas that they'd blow the top off a hunk-a-meter merely by walking within ten feet of it.

Regardless of that, though, why did Harrison want to learn what her dad always called guerrilla driving? For that matter, why had he already taken five other RCI courses?

Typically, RCI students were celebrities, high-level government officials or corporate executives whose work landed them in hotbeds of terrorism. Or they were people employed by individuals at high risk.

The other major category was comprised of folk in law enforcement of one sort or another. She'd taught members of police and sheriffs' departments from half the states in the nation, as well as FBI agents and CIA types.

But when it came to law professors, Trent Harrison of Ridley University was her first. Actually, he was her first any kind of professor.

Her gaze slipped down to the line on his application form that asked his reason for taking her course. Interested in expanding the scope of my skills, he'd written.

Uh-uh. She wasn't buying that he was simply a run-of-the-mill Joe Public wanting to be a better driver.

She might have - just maybe - except for the records of those five previous courses. He seemed to have taken one every time there was a break between terms.

Of course, he could merely be looking for some excitement in his life. And since the little town of Ridley wasn't much more than a half hour's drive from the outskirts of Hartford, where the RCI training center was located, getting here wouldn't require a lot of effort.

But six courses?

She set his current application aside, then flipped through the older ones. He'd begun with Defensive Tactics. Next had come first- and second-level Handgun Training. Then he'd done both basic and comprehensive Personal Protection Training.

He looked to be working his way through RCI's entire range of offerings, and on each of the forms he'd simply claimed to be interested in expanding the scope of his skills.

She couldn't help wondering if that was a euphemism for "I'm paranoid to the max," then she began sincerely hoping it wasn't. Courses went far more smoothly when all the students were sane, rational people.

* * *

Trent stood on the edge of the track, waiting for the instructor to show and making small talk with the others.

It wasn't the easiest thing to do, given that confidentiality was the watchword at Risk Control International, but he had no problem with the first names only rule.

People who needed the sort of training RCI provided didn't want anyone flagging them as potential kidnap or assassination targets. And even if that wasn't the case, he wouldn't be interested in telling three strangers who he was and why he was there.

He glanced at his new classmates in turn - Al, Mike and ... The other one's name had slipped his mind but -

At the sound of a door opening, all four men turned toward the building.

"Not bad," Mike said.

To Trent's mind that was a distinct understatement.

The woman who'd stepped out into the warmth of the June morning was tall and slender, with sun-streaked hair the color of pale honey and the sort of natural good looks that would make any redblooded male take notice.

She headed across the track, flashing a terrific smile as she neared them.

"I'm Chelsea Everett," she said, then waited a beat before adding, "I teach the tactical driving course.

"So let's start by getting the obvious questions answered," she continued, her amused expression telling Trent that her new students had done a poor job of concealing their surprise.

"I've completed every course RCI offers, as have the other instructors here, and I'm qualified to teach several of them."

Which, he thought, had to make her extremely capable of taking care of herself.

"But I feel most comfortable with this one," she went on, "because I've been driving for almost as long as I can remember.

"My father is Howie - `Slick' - Everett. Retired race-car driver?"

Trent nodded that he recognized the name, although he figured champion would have been a better choice of words than driver . In his prime, Slick Everett had been at the top of the heap.

"Well, when I was eight years old my dad stood me between his knees at the wheel and taught me to drive. I was racing a Ford Galaxie on dirt ovals in Indiana before I had a driver's license.

"And beating all the boys," she added with another smile.

Then she pointed along the track to where orange cones had been set up, creating an obstacle course. "We're going to begin with a test drive so I can see what level you're starting at. After that, we'll spend the rest of the morning in the classroom - not just talking technical stuff, but studying real incidents and discussing how deaths could have been avoided.

"This afternoon, we'll get down to some practice work with our driving simulators, then I'll do individual sessions with each of you on the track. And that's primarily where you'll spend the rest of your time here - driving those training cars." She gestured toward the half-dozen that were parked nearby.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Finding Amy by Dawn Stewardson Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.